


It's Not About Angels

by dametokillfor



Series: Cold As A Stone, Rich As A Fool [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Heavy on the Napoleon/OMC, Implied Napoleon/Illya, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Military Background, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dametokillfor/pseuds/dametokillfor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon had fallen in love with a fellow soldier back during the war, and had his heart broken. Enter Illya Kuryakin, who is so much like, and so different from the man he gave his heart to all those years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not About Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=564608) on kinkmeme.
> 
> This fic ended up more focussed on Napoleon's wartime partner, more than anything, however there are nods towards how he is and isn't like Illya. I may write more about Illya and Freddie's similarities in the future, but once I started this I couldn't stop myself.
> 
> As if in any doubt, I'm basically seeing/writing Freddie as Armie, that giant goofy ray of sunshine, except in a military uniform.

Freddie White had the kind of smile that could light up an entire room, the kind of smile that could warm your heart even in the coldest, wettest, darkest part of the trenches. The earth could freeze over, and Napoleon would still have felt a simmering warmth right through every part of his soul when Freddie directed that smile at him, threw out a _could be worse, we could be back at that last USO show_. He always retained a sense of optimism that so many of the older men had lost over the years, believed in the cause he was fighting for, and never let himself become cynical.

It was one of the things that had attracted Napoleon to him in the first place. He’d seen too many friends die, get injured, succumb to the madness in the trenches. He didn’t know how to be happy, how to smile or stay positive anymore. Seeing a bright, cheerful smile in the middle of everything was like seeing an angel, and Napoleon had needed an angel.

(Upon first meeting him, Napoleon is sure Illya Kuryakin probably hasn’t smiled in all of his adult life, at least not without causing someone intense physical pain first. Yet when Napoleon sees that hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips, he finds himself expecting it to blossom into the same full, warm smile that Freddie used to give him.)

He’d tested the waters carefully, sat a little too close, smiled a little too long, let his hand linger a little too long. Freddie had leant closer, held his gaze, let his hand rest atop Napoleon’s whenever he touched him. Friendly gestures that nobody could accuse of being anything but camaraderie, but that they’d both seemed to know was a silent request for something more.

They’d first slept together after a night out in a bar in Paris. They’d been sat with their company, drinking and joking around. The other men had gravitated towards the young women frequenting the bar, Freddie and Napoleon had both invented stories of pretty young things they’d left behind to avoid any suspicion. (Napoleon, a beautiful, slender blonde thing, with blue eyes that held so much promise. Freddie, a young, blue eyed girl with curly dark hair and curves that won’t quit). As the night had drawn on, and their friends had been dancing with their new ladies, Freddie and Napoleon had excused themselves, walked back to their small boarding house, laughing and joking, in higher spirits than they had been in a long time.

They’d shut the door on their small shared room, had locked it and God, the room had felt thick and heavy, the tension between the two of them at breaking point. They didn’t touch for the longest time, as if afraid one of them had misread the other. They stood close, just in each other’s space, breathing each other’s air as they looked over faces, lips, eyes, any sign that this wasn’t what the other wanted. Freddie had made the first move, had taken Napoleon’s face gently in his hands, before moving and let his lips hover over Napoleon’s. They’d barely touched and yet nothing had felt so intimate, so real, so right to Napoleon.

(It’s the way Illya and Gaby had been in that hotel room in Rome, before Napoleon had so rudely interrupted them. He could have spared them another moment or two, let them consummate the burgeoning tension between them, but some cruel part of him couldn’t watch Freddie’s face being kissed by someone who wasn’t him.)

Napoleon had nodded, whispered his name and pressed his lips to Freddie’s. The kiss had been soft, gentle, barely there and Napoleon was pretty certain he’d fallen in love right then. Freddie had smiled against his lips, laughed gently and the dam was broken, the nerves, the terror was gone. He’d kissed Napoleon like it was their last night on Earth, (and it could easily have been, every time their last time, every kiss their last), as if the world was ending and they were the only people left.

They’d both taken one look across at the small twin beds in the room, and laughed. Freddie was 6’ 6, Napoleon was pretty hefty himself, it would be a struggle for even one of them to fit. They’d ended up with Napoleon backed against the wall, Freddie fucking into him with naught but spit to ease the way. It hurt, it burned and was almost too much but Napoleon wouldn’t have changed it for the world. The way Freddie’s head felt against his neck, the way his lips kissed at his pulse, the way he whispered words against his neck, about how much he’d wanted this, how scared he was that Napoleon was messing with him, how he was more scared of rejection than dying in this goddamn war.

(It’s the way Illya’s voice broke and his eyes lost something when he’d found out Gaby had betrayed them, that she wasn’t who she said she was. It’s the way he’d taken it so personally, as if everything between them had been a lie. It’s as if Napoleon is watching Freddie’s heart break in front of him, and he had wanted to do everything to take that pain away, but Illya wasn’t Freddie, and Napoleon couldn’t just hold him to fix everything).

Every chance to snatch a moment alone, together, they took it. Nights on leave, making love in real beds, taking each other to pieces, making promises to spend their lives together. Nights in tents, quick and dirty mutual handjobs and hard kisses. Brief snatches of time in woods, in shadows, anywhere they were safe for even a moment, swapping a kiss or two.

Their squadron knew. How could they not? How could Napoleon stop himself from breaking into a smile every time Freddie so much as looked at him? How could he stop himself from throwing his arms around him after he’s been away on a scouting mission and he’s come back alive? They probably didn’t approve – how could they? – but war has a way of making men rethink their priorities. If he and Freddie could find some comfort in each other when the world around them was going to shit, why should they take umbrage with it? On top of which, who was going to argue with a man Freddie’s size? Freddie would never have hurt them, not really, but he’d have used his height to intimidate them some, before backing down. He was like a giant overgrown puppy.

(Illya, though, would probably have ensured they remembered exactly why they shouldn’t mess with him and Napoleon. He imagines there'd have been the odd broken nose, and a few missing teeth. Napoleon likes to think Illya wouldn’t have an issue with his proclivities, likes to think they’re friendly enough now that he would be able to accept him. But then things are different in Russia.)

Freddie and Napoleon felt invincible. The kind of invincibility that only the young and madly in love feel, the kind of feelings you get before the inevitable fall. War is brutal, and God, Napoleon knows it only too well.

(It’s the invincibility Gaby and Illya feel looking at each other. Nothing can touch them, the world is at their feet. Gaby is out from behind the Iron Curtain, Illya is out of the KGB, UNCLE can give them everything they want. Their lives might not be perfect, but with the other by their side, they’re pretty damn close).

Napoleon still doesn’t remember exactly what happened, there’s a blank space in his memory as if he’s blocked the event from his mind, as if he can’t let himself think about what led to the moment that changed his life, so he can’t blame himself. (Yet he does). He remembers every painstaking moment that followed, screaming Freddie's name, dropping to his knees by his fallen lover, the blood, so much blood, the large wound at Freddie’s side, turning his green uniform black.

He’d pressed his hands to the wound, just knowing that pressure was supposed to help. He’d screamed for a medic, told Freddie not to worry, then screamed more.

Freddie had made a joke, “It’s amazing I got this far, I’m a pretty big target.”

Napoleon had wanted to hit him, scream at him for daring to make a stupid comment like that. It wasn’t the time, he wasn’t going to let Freddie’s last words be some bad joke. He wasn’t going to let Freddie speak his last words bleeding out on the battlefield, at only 23 years old.

“Shut up.” was all that came out instead.

Freddie had half smiled at that point, and it looked pained, like he was only keeping it up for Napoleon’s sake. He lifted his hand, held Napoleon’s face. He was dying, what exactly could they do to him for his perversions now?

“I love you.” Freddie told him, tears falling from his big blue eyes, “If I’m going to hell for what we did, for what I felt for you, Napoleon, it was worth it.”

“At least it’ll be warm.” Napoleon joked, holding Freddie’s hand at his face.

Freddie had laughed as well, “Yeah, there is that.”

He’d coughed hard then, blood coming from his lips, “Napoleon, don’t leave me.”

“I’m right here.” Napoleon promised, kissing Freddie’s hand, “I’m not going anywhere.”

As Freddie’s eyes had closed, Napoleon had screamed for a medic again. Their medic, Bill, had appeared what felt like an age after Freddie’s chest had stopped rising, but had probably only been seconds after his eyes had closed. He’d been pronounced dead at the scene and Napoleon was pretty certain part of him had died with him.

(“You okay, cowboy?” Illya asks, resting a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder.

He's not back in the trenches, he's in another faceless hotel, another mission for UNCLE.  
  
Napoleon looks up to see Illya and Gaby stood next to him, a matching look of concern across their faces. He doesn't know why he got caught up in the moment, in the memory. It happens sometimes, happens more now Illya is around.

Napoleon pulls himself together, pulls over the mask of indifference and offers them a winning smile.

“Couldn’t be better, Peril.” He lies, patting the hand Illya has rested on his shoulder. He wants to hold it, the way he would have with Freddie, but he lets go. The hand is too cold, it’s not him, Freddie was always so warm.

Illya doesn’t look convinced, looks back at Gaby for confirmation that she doesn’t believe him either. She smiles sadly.

“If you ever need to talk, Napoleon.” Gaby starts.

He wants to make a sarcastic comment, explain that he’ll just go talk to that pretty redhead he saw downstairs earlier. Instead he just nods, smiles awkwardly at her.

Illya squeezes his shoulder, and smiles down at him too, and for a second, Napoleon’s heart lifts and he and Freddie are together, their future dreams and plans have come true.

Illya’s thumb brushes across Napoleon’s shoulder for a brief moment, a touch that could be casual, but then is so reminiscent of his clandestine flirtations with Freddie.)

He visited Freddie’s mother when he’d got out, when he’d had a chance to hit American soil without fear of being tracked by his own little task force. He’d introduced himself as a member of Freddie’s squadron, a friend who had been with him when he’d passed. Freddie’s mother had known straight away that Napoleon was talking crap.

“You’re Natalia.”

Napoleon had been so taken aback, just nodded. The new Napoleon didn’t get lost for words. He’d spent a long time cultivating a new version of himself, always ready with a quick response, a snappy repartee.

This wasn’t something he’d prepared himself for.

She'd smiled, and urged him inside, "There's something you should see, dear."

She presented him with a bundle of letters, tied together with twine. She nodded, urged him to read them. Freddie had talked about him in his letters home, told his mother not to worry as he’d met a swell nurse called Natalia. He’d told his mother how much he loved her, how he’d never felt like this before, that he knew what his parents had been talking about when they said it was hard to breathe without the other. He told his mother how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Natalia, how he was happy, happier now in the trenches with the dangers therein than he ever had been in his little country town.

Freddie’s mother had made him tea, as he’d read letter after letter about how much Natalia meant to him, how happy she made him. The last letter had ended with a scrawled, manic addition stating ‘ _Mom, I need to tell you something about her and I don’t want to lose you or her and I’m so scared that you won’t be able to accept this. Next letter, I promise, just don’t hate me, please don’t hate me_ ’ and then he’d signed off.

The letter was dated two days before he’d been killed.

“I knew as soon as I read that what he wanted to tell me.” Mrs White told him as she’d placed tea in front of Napoleon, “I must admit, I’d expected maybe a Nathaniel. Not a Napoleon.”

She’d sat across from him, and smiled warmly, “And never someone quite so handsome.”

She’d admitted she’d always had an idea of Freddie’s feelings towards other men, had been shocked and upset at first. When she’d read the way that he’d written about Natalia, Napoleon, she’d realised that nothing making her son that happy could be against God’s will. She’d vowed that if he’d ever come home, that Freddie’s partner would have been as welcome in her house as Freddie himself would have been.

She had started crying then, the realisation she’d never get to tell her son that she’d loved him and accepted him long ago, that he’d died worrying that she’d hate him for daring to fall in love. Napoleon had held her as she’d sobbed, his own tears falling into her pink sweater. She’d thanked him as she clung to him for making her son’s last month’s so happy, for keeping him safe as long as he had, for letting him feel love at least once before he’d passed away.

They’d cried on each other for what felt like an age, before Mrs White had pulled back, wiped her eyes and announced that their tea had gotten cold.

(Illya brings him a glass of scotch, neat. He hands it across without saying a word, just knows that Napoleon needs it.

He sits by him on the large couch in their hotel room, and doesn’t speak. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, doesn’t need to be filled with anything other than the sounds of Napoleon quietly drinking and their breathing. He simply wants to let Napoleon know he isn’t alone. It’s what he and Freddie would do for one another when the realisation of what they were doing, why they were fighting, why the world had gone to shit was too much and they just needed a moment.

It’s almost driving Napoleon insane, he almost wants Illya to say something, to hear that Russian accent because the longer he sits like this, silently with a man who could be Freddie’s twin, the more it’s going to hurt when the spell is broken.

Napoleon finishes his drink, nods to Illya and puts the glass down on the table. He moves to get up, put Illya stops him with a hand on his arm. He holds up the small photo of Freddie in his uniform, grinning like a fool, the one that has been in Napoleon’s wallet ever since the war.

“I will never be him. I can’t love you like he did.” Illya says, smiling sadly.

And he sounds so sincere, so sorry that he isn’t Napoleon’s lost love that Napoleon’s heart clenches.

“Illya – "

“Do not pretend I don’t hurt you, looking this way.” Illya gestures to his face, “I have broken hearts before, though usually with fist.”

And Illya’s attempt at humour is so bad, that Napoleon can’t help but snort out a little laugh. Illya joins him, with a small smile, a noise close to laughter and the differences are so stark, that Napoleon feels better.

He hands the photo back to Napoleon, “If you need to talk about him, talk to me. Do not hurt alone, _tovarisch._ ”

Napoleon offers him a smile, nods at him, “Thank you, Illya.”

“You have better taste than I give you credit for, Cowboy.” Illya says, with a smile, “He is handsome man. Strong, Russian features. Good face.”

Napoleon shakes his head, “You are going to be unbearable now, aren’t you?”

“We shall see.”

Napoleon smiles. Now things are out, he actually finds himself looking forward to it.)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Birdy's Not About Angels.  
>  _How unfair, it's just our luck,_  
>  _Found something real that's out of touch._
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on my [Tumblr](http://damnstevens.tumblr.com).


End file.
